


Where There's a Will

by Octoblink



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Giotto's A++ Mentoring, High School, vigilantism runs in the family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-18 18:43:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16522565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octoblink/pseuds/Octoblink
Summary: Even sealed flames find a way to burn.For Tsuna, the first sign something's seriously off the rails is the voice in his head. The superhero part is just a logical consequence.





	1. Lamplit (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> This is an incredibly self-indulgent AU founded on the premise that the Vongola took just a little bit longer to follow up with the Sawada side of the family tree. Three years, give or take. Just enough time for Tsuna to go to high school, for Timoteo's seal to wear off, and for chaos to ensue. 
> 
> Plus superheroes. Considering the family history, they really should have seen that coming.
> 
> Specific content warnings in the end notes.

The weirdest thing, the very weirdest thing, is that as Tsuna makes his way down Nishiki Street at 11:30 p.m. in a hooded windbreaker and a medical mask, he isn’t cold.

Not the fact that he’s here, now, planning what might possibly be the stupidest thing he’s done in his life. Not that he’d lied to his mom about going to bed early, or that he’d had to check and make sure they had a first-aid kit stocked up before he left. Not even— and that is a _staggering_ caveat— that he has the distinct impression of a man walking next to him in a sweeping cape and suit, but when he looks to his left, no one’s there.

 _I explained that_ , says Giotto patiently. _Dying will flames are energy; I’m more of an... imprint. A genetic ghost._

Yeah, Tsuna remembers that conversation. It would be hard to forget the screaming, and the throwing of objects, and the crushing realization that the little voice in his head had graduated to a full-on haunting. At the time, particulars of Giotto’s physicality or lack thereof hadn’t seemed important.

Also, the ghost in his head has a _name_ now. Apparently Tsuna’s subconscious has a fascination with Italians.

 _I’m not part of your subconscious, Tsunayoshi_. The ghost sounds mildly amused.

Right. Because if he were, this whole problem could be solved by drugs and a therapist. Instead of, you know, stalking the city by night.

“I know,” he says at last, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I get it. Really.”

And hands in pockets doesn’t make a difference, does it? Tsuna’s still warm in the damp night air, like he’s got a furnace in his stomach, radiating heat that makes the little drops of rain wisp into steam as they hit his face. And from the glow of reflected light on the pavement around him, he knows that no matter how low he pulls the hood of his windbreaker, that pulsing orange flame is still gleaming on his forehead.

Whatever’s going on, whatever Tsuna’s turning into, there’s no turning back at this point. Because it’s one thing to hide in the back of the class when you’re a skinny 100-pounds-soaking-wet loser, and it’s another when you’re… not.

It doesn’t help that the steady pulsing of the flames seems to rearrange his thoughts, cast everything in a light of perfect clarity, set _right_ and _wrong_ in boxes with a disturbingly stark line in between.

 _You’re learning_ , says Giotto.

“Let’s go,” he says, before he can think better of it.


	2. Radiate, part 1

“So, are you free tomorrow?” asks Kyoko, with her little half-smile that makes the freckles stand out on her nose. “We could meet at that coffee shop near the movie theater; it’s barely a ten-minute walk from school.”

Tsuna’s heart does a pathetic little somersault in his chest. He forces himself to fix his eyes on his desk, to avoid gazing at her wistfully like he would if he let his guard down even for an instant. _Get a grip_ , he orders himself. _Stop overreacting; you_ _’re taking this whole thing out of context._

But when he looks up, Kyoko is still watching him expectantly. It’s like staring into the sun. “Tsuna?”

“Sure,” he stammers. “Whenever.”

That wins him another, warmer smile. “What about the rest of you?”

“Sounds good to me,” says Takeshi Yamamoto. He’s so tall he barely fits in his chair, and sits slouched over his desk. “Only, can we go in the morning? I have practice after school.”

He grins at Hana Kurokawa, who’s spent most of the meeting resolutely ignoring him. Out of everyone in the class, she’s the most immune to Yamamoto’s sunny personality. The flip side is that she can’t be bothered to argue with him. She thinks it’s beneath her.

Now she frowns and props her chin on one hand. “There’s no point going to the coffee shop, then. We might as well meet in the school library.”

“Oh. I wanted to try the little teacakes,” admits Kyoko sheepishly. “But I guess you’re right, Hana.”

Even in middle school, Kurokawa was an intimidating person. She had a combination of no-nonsense attitude and implausibly high standards that scared off pretty much everyone except Kyoko. Then they entered high school, and impossibly she got _worse,_ joining the student council and topping all the class rankings, and sticking resolutely by Kyoko’s side like a self-appointed guard dog.To this day, Kurokawa’s only known weakness is Kyoko’s sad face. She sighs, grudgingly. “Well, it’s not _that_ far of a walk _._ So long as no one oversleeps.”

Then she glares at Yamamoto and Tsuna, like either of them would’ve dreamed of objecting.

“Sure. Morning practice starts before sunrise.”

“It’s on the way,” Tsuna says, nodding like a bobblehead. “I can definitely be there.”

As if he would turn down the chance to spend time with Kyoko Sasagawa for any reason, in any world. Kurokawa gives him a slightly contemptuous look, like she knows exactly what’s going through his head and isn’t impressed.

“Are you sure?” says Kyoko. “Well, I guess if everyone agrees. How about six-thirty? That gives us plenty of time to go over the material before class.”

Tsuna still can’t quite believe his luck. To be assigned to the same group as Kyoko Sasagawa for the class project. Not only that, but Yamamoto and Kurokawa too. For all that Kurokawa’s harsh, she’s smarter than any of them and surprisingly good at explaining tough concepts. And Yamamoto’s laid-back attitude keeps everyone getting along.

The only one with nothing to offer is Tsuna. Since starting at Namimori High a few weeks ago, he’d at least managed to avoid the notoriety that followed him through middle school. Back there, he was the class whipping boy. Here, he’s not Loser Tsuna. He’s just nobody.

“It’s settled, then.” Kurokawa folds her hands, like a judge banging a gavel to conclude a case. “Six-thirty sharp.”

They all split, after that. Kyoko to her botany club, Kurokawa to the student council meeting, and Yamamoto heads downstairs with Tsuna on his way to baseball practice. Yamamoto doesn’t seem to think there’s anything unusual about talking to Tsuna like he’s just another classmate, chattering about baseball and the summer tournament season. Realistically, though, Tsuna’s mentally calculating the number of times he’s so much as spoken to Yamamoto. Even for him, it’s not exactly difficult math.

They step out into the courtyard, and Tsuna winces at the glare of the sun. It’s getting hot already, even though it’s barely mid-April.

“Are you heading home?”

“Yeah. I’m not in any clubs.” He’s a textbook underachiever. It doesn’t bother him most of the time, but admitting it to someone as hardworking as Yamamoto is a little embarrassing. “I guess practice keeps you busy?”

Yamamoto hums agreement. “I help out at my dad’s restaurant, too. I got pretty good at making sushi in middle school, when I took time off the baseball team.”

“You took time off baseball?” It’s hard to imagine. Baseball _defines_ Yamamoto _._

 _“_ Yup. Our first year, remember?”

Tsuna tries to think back, but his memories of middle school are hazy. He’d been so caught up in trying to scrape through classes and avoid bullies. There had been a stir about Yamamoto that fall, when he’d suddenly been pulled out of classes and didn’t come back until the spring. Rumors spread that he was sick, maybe injured, or that it was family problems. But Tsuna never realized that Yamamoto gave up baseball, too.

He opens his mouth to ask the obvious question— _why?_ — when he notices the slightly fixed set to Yamamoto’s smile.

“Oh,” he says instead, weakly. “Okay. Good luck with practice?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Yamamoto turns, as if to go. Then he pauses and glances over his shoulder. “Hey, Tsuna! Get some rest, okay? You look kind of pale.”

“I do?”

He’s been kind of hot all day— he even undid his tie as soon as class was over— but he’d put it down to the classroom being stuffy. Then again, maybe it _is_ him. Even in the spring breeze, his skin prickles uncomfortably, like he’s got a bad sunburn that’s only starting to show.

“Maybe you’re coming down with something.” Yamamoto shrugs. “It’s still flu season, right? You can’t be too careful.”

“Thanks.” Tsuna feels warmed by the concern; he offers a hesitant smile. “See you tomorrow?”

“Sure. Hope you feel better.”

* * *

Tsuna doesn’t feel better. He feels much, much worse.

By the time he gets home, it’s an effort to keep walking in a straight line. The dizziness hit somewhere around the bus station, coupled with a roiling nausea. His pulse is banging on the inside of his temples, and his skin feels as dry and hot as an oven. His head is uncomfortably foggy, too. He misses the front door on his first try and can’t seem to get his shoes off by just stepping on the heels.

“Ah, Tsuna!” That’s his mom, calling from the kitchen. There’s a warm, savory aroma suffusing the house; apparently, she’s been making soup. “How was school?”

He drops his bag by the door and heads into the kitchen, eager to sit down. The prospect of climbing the stairs to his bedroom is a bit daunting right now. “It was fine. We started working on our group projects; I told you about that.”

Mom smiles at him. Despite the grey starting to show through her brown hair, she’s never lost an ounce of enthusiasm or optimism. “That’s wonderful!”

“Yeah,” he says. There’s a bowl of soup on the table for him, which he eyes dubiously but leaves alone. He’s not sure he could keep it down. “We’re meeting before school tomorrow. The coffee shop by the station. Kyoko Sasagawa recommended it.”

“You should invite your friends over sometime! It’s always so quiet around here.”

Which is one way of saying that Tsuna’s never had a proper friend in his life. He sighs, and stirs his bowl absently with a spoon. “They’re not my friends, Mom. They’re just classmates.”

Thinking of Kurokawa’s reaction if someone accused her of being friends with Tsuna actually makes him smile. Talking to Yamamoto today, though, that had been nice. He doesn’t harbor any illusions that it’ll continue after the class project is done, but while it lasts… he doesn’t want to let them down.

“Tsu-kun?” his mother asks, and he realizes his eyes have been drifting shut. She puts a hand against his forehead and clicks her tongue. “You’re so warm! Why didn’t you say something?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m just tired.”

He might have guessed that wouldn’t appease her. Within the next five minutes, he’s ushered upstairs to his bedroom and tucked into bed in his pajamas— like he’s five years old again, _honestly_ — and she’s somehow materialized a cold towel for his forehead and a cup of hot honey tea.

He wants to protest at being babied, but the truth is he wouldn’t have made it up the stairs by himself. And the coolness of the cloth on his head ebbs away some of the heat behind his eyes that he hadn’t even realized was there.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t be silly. You didn’t ask to get sick.” Mom pushes away some of the laundry carpeting his floor, clearing a path to his bed. “I’m heading to the drugstore for some medicine. I’ll be back in just a few minutes, okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

With one last look over her shoulder, his mother closes the door. He hears her footsteps as she goes down the stairs, hears the front door open and shut behind her.

 _What_ _’s happening to me?_ Tsuna thinks, staring up at the ceiling. _I was fine this morning._

They’ve read case studies in Biology, about epidemics and how they get started. Usually the case begins just like that: _I was fine this morning_. Stupid. It’s probably just a summer cold, and being paranoid about it won’t help anything.

But before long, he’s struggling to remember anything about those studies at all. His eyes feel heavy and hot, his breath scalding in his lungs. He tosses and turns free of his bedsheets, but he’s still far too warm. The damp towel on his forehead is bone-dry, which shouldn’t be possible. It’s only been a few minutes— hasn’t it? It’s getting hard to tell time.

It’s like his own blood is trying to boil him from the inside out. Every time his eyes slide shut, he sees light behind them, orange flames dancing inside of his head.

There’s a ringing in his ears, too, a steady beat like the _whoosh_ as air escapes from a furnace. It overlaps with the beating of his heart, the pattern of his pulse, in a half-familiar rhythm.

Time passes. He’s not sure how much. It can’t be more than a few minutes, because mom isn’t back yet, but he feels like he’s been tossing and turning for hours. He hopes she gets back soon. He really wants some cold water, and he’s not sure he can make his way down the hall to the bathroom and back.

He feels, more than sees, someone sitting down beside his bed, and sighs in relief. It must be Mom, back from the store with medicine. Maybe that’ll be enough to knock his fever down a few degrees and let him get some sleep.

“Water,” he croaks. “Please.”

 _Water won_ _’t help you,_ says a soft voice in his ear. _But you_ _’ve been strong so far. If you could summon me here, there’s a chance you’ll pull through._

It’s not his mother’s voice. It sounds like a man’s voice, actually, which is so unusual in this house that Tsuna manages to crack his eyes open.

For a moment there’s a strange double vision in his head. Part of his mind is telling him that the room is empty, that he’s just been floating on the edge of exhaustion for too long and started to dream. But there’s another part insisting, with equal conviction, that someone is leaning over his bedside with one gloved hand on his forehead. And he _knows_ that the man is pulling away the fire inside of him, not extinguishing it but letting it burn cool and gentle, and all he can do is sigh in confused relief.

 _Are you the doctor?_ He wants to ask it out loud, but the breath rasps and doesn’t catch in his throat.

 _No,_ says the man. _But I_ _’m here to help._

That doesn’t answer anything. Tsuna wants to ask more, wants to understand properly, but as the fire under his skin begins to abate and exhaustion beckons him back into sleep, he can’t do more than reach out with a hand.

The man catches his hand and settles it back on the bed. _Rest, Tsunayoshi_ , he says. _We_ _’ll talk later._

* * *

When Nana returns from the drug store with medicine, she finds that her son’s fever has lapsed. He sleeps peacefully, and his skin is cool to the touch. She smiles, tiptoes out, and turns off the light.

* * *

 _Interesting,_ says a soft voice in Tsuna’s ear. _This has never happened before._

The words flow through his head without settling. He’s tired, beyond all hope of concentration, and he can’t immediately recall where he is or what day it is. He can’t even really remember what happened. The only thing that registers, really registers as important is the absolute lack of heat.

He’s alive. He’s alive and healthy and awake, and he’s _not burning._ Not in the slightest. He’s completely safe—albeit a bit dry mouthed and scratchy-eyed— and there’s no one else in his room when he wakes up.

What _was_ that? Some kind of bizarre fever dream?

Tsuna rolls over and checks his clock— 6:15— and his pulse jumps in his throat. Oh, god. He’s got about five minutes to get ready and make it down to the coffee shop before their meeting starts. He can’t be late— not when he’d promised Kyoko, given her his _word_ …

He dresses in a blur, shoves his notebooks into his bag, trips down the stairwell when he forgets to look where he’s going. Mom glances up sharply when he stumbles into the kitchen, stirring a big pot of something on the stove. “Where on earth are you going, Tsu-kun?”

“Group meeting?” he says breathlessly, shoving a piece of toast in his mouth. He feels so much cooler than he did yesterday, when that fever had kicked in, but there’s still a phantom warmth blanketing him. Like he’s spent his entire life just a bit too cold, and finally bothered to put on a jacket. “Running late.”

“But you were so sick,” she protests. “You should stay home and get some rest. Your friends will understand.”

He only shakes his head. The idea of explaining to Kurokawa that he’d skipped out on the group meeting for something as stupid and menial as _illness;_ he wouldn’t survive the day.

“Sorry,” he says, mouth full. “I feel better now, honestly.”

It’s strange how vivid that dream is, still. It almost seems real, even now that he’s sitting at the breakfast table. Like there really was a man in his room, pulling fire out of his head, saving his life when he thought he’d burn alive. Stupid. It was probably just his mom, coming back from the drug store with anti-inflammatory medicine to treat his fever.

“Call home if you feel ill,” she says, fretting. “I don’t want you to relapse, okay?”

“Sure thing, Mom.”

He heads out with his bag slung over his shoulder, feeling strangely confident about the day ahead of him. There’s no reason for it— he hadn’t even had time to go over the material the night before— but there’s something warm pulsing in his chest and making him sure.

When he walks into the coffee shop, Kyoko’s there cooing over her entremets, and Yamamoto is only just sitting down. Kurokawa rolls her eyes and mutters something about how of _course_ Sawada would be late, what had she expected. And even that isn’t enough to make his smile fade, as he sits down with his classmates and opens his books.

“You look like you’re doing better,” says Yamamoto, sounding pleased.

Tsuna smiles back. “Yeah. Thanks.”

* * *

It’s when the meeting is over, when they’re heading to school, that everything goes wrong.

Kurokawa is the saving grace of their project, as anticipated. Kyoko tries her best, and Yamamoto and Tsuna both listen with matching expressions of bewilderment, but it’s Kurokawa who’s actually gone through all the readings and understood them. She coaches them all through it with an attitude of annoyed superiority, but by the end they understand the material than they ever would have by themselves.

Then someone checks the time, and Kurokawa _doesn_ _’t_ swear for all that it sounds like she wants to, and they hurry out of the shop after paying the tab. Ten minutes to be sitting down in class— there’s nothing to do but rush.

Tsuna’s half-walking, half-running next to Yamamoto, nodding politely as best he can to keep up with the conversation, when something grabs his attention and _pulls_.

_Danger._

_Protect._

_Help._

He nearly trips from the force of the distraction. There’s no one else on the sidewalk besides him and Yamamoto (with Kyoko and Kurokawa following narrowly behind) but he has the sudden, sickening feeling of danger.

_What the heck?_

Tsuna looks around on reflex, like he’s expecting to see whoever—or whatever— is yelling at him to intervene. Or even, hell, what he’s supposed to intervene in. It’s such a strong feeling, so clear and distinct in his head, that it’s hard to separate it from reality.

Yamamoto gives him an odd look. “Tsuna? We should probably hurry?”

“Sorry.” He glances around, feeling knocked off balance. “I— did you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“Never mind, then. I just—” He shivers, as a distinct sensation of _urgency_ slides down his spine. “I guess I”m still a little sick. That’s all.”

 _Tsunayoshi_.

He looks up sharply, startled. There’s no one he knows that actually calls him by his entire first name. With Mom it’s always Tsu-kun, and even Yamamoto and Kyoko usually call him Tsuna. Same goes for most of the students in his class, who carry on his middle school nickname with cheerful derision. Even Kurokawa mostly calls him Sawada.

But there’s no one near him. No one but Yamamoto, and he’s staring at him with a quizzical expression.

_Hurry, Tsunayoshi._

Something flashes in the corner of his eye. A brief image, almost an idea, of a red-lined cloak disappearing behind a corner. And the sensation that goes along with it—

Tsuna turns to Yamamoto and says, apologetically, “I’ll meet you in class. There’s something I’ve got to do.”

“Tsuna, wait!”

“Don’t worry!” he shouts behind him. He suspects it doesn’t come out _reassuring_ so much as _panicked_.

Whatever— whoever— he’s following, the man is hard to catch. Every time he thinks he’s making progress, he turns a corner only to see that flicker of a cloak vanishing around the next. He sees a instant of blond hair, a flash of amber eyes, but never quite catches up to the man. He’s not chasing a person, he realizes. He’s being led somewhere.

Somewhere away from Namimori High, which is distressing. Class started in ten minutes about four minutes ago, and the chances of him making it to homeroom on time are slimming rapidly. At least twice, he skids to a halt, determined to turn around— they have to turn in their project, and if he isn’t there Kyoko and Yamamoto will be disappointed, and Kurokawa will be _pissed_ — only for the feeling of urgency to redouble.

The reason for it is totally beyond him. There’s no logic, no understanding, just a feeling that something bad is happening and the urge to make it stop.

 _Intuition_ , whispers a voice.

Tsuna makes a sound that’s half a whimper, half a laugh. He hasn’t run so far, so fast in months. His heart is bashing savagely at his ribcage, his lungs are aching, the muscles in his legs are screaming in protest. He’s almost ready to collapse in a quivering mess, intuition or no intuition, when he turns a corner—

— and finds himself face-to-face with what can only be a mugging in progress.

There are four teenagers, all of whom could be comfortably typecast as _delinquents_ , standing around a short red-haired boy. A backpack is open on the ground, and one of the muggers is holding an open wallet.

And they’re all staring at Tsuna.

Oh, crap.

 _He needs your help,_ says a voice in his ear, serious and urgent. There’s no one there, but Tsuna can _feel_ the presence of someone leaning over his shoulder. _Now._

Impossible. What can Tsuna do, besides serve as a replacement punching bag and probably lose his wallet in the bargain? He wishes abruptly that he hadn’t told Yamamoto to keep going without him. It would be reassuring to have someone tall and athletic standing behind him right now.

But the redheaded kid is staring at him with an expression of dawning disbelief, and it’s a look Tsuna recognizes from the mirror. When he’d resigned himself to a beating, accepted that help wasn’t coming, and prepared to brace through the worst of it— and then, when help did come after all. No matter how weak Tsuna is, no matter how patently breakable, no matter how exhausted and quite possibly crazy he is, he’s the only one here.

His heart is beating in his mouth, but there’s another pulse running alongside his heartbeat. His skin feels warm, his eyes are burning, and he _has to do something_.

 _You_ _’re starting to understand_ , says the voice approvingly.

Then there’s nothing in Tsuna’s head but fire and absolute certainty. He steps forward and says, “Leave him alone.”

* * *

None of this would’ve happened if it weren’t for the headphones, Shoichi thinks. There’s so much panic going on in his head it drowns itself out, while a serene kind of resignation floats to the top. And, since the headphones were a birthday gift from Akiko, that means it’s all his sister’s fault.

Haha, if only. No, he’d been listening to the new Blood & Peppers album at top volume like an idiot, completely oblivious to the world around him. To make matters worse, he’d been looking at his phone. The last message from his conversation with Spanner is still on his screen when someone grabs him roughly by the shoulder and turns him around.

_@lollipop: cmq, wouldn_ _’t it be cool if you could do it with servos?_

_@lollipop: shoichi? you there?_

Shoichi is not there. He’s too busy quaking in his sneakers as he stares up at the delinquent-looking teen hauling him up by the collar.

There are four of them, and one is wearing the blazer— although not the uniform shirt, pants, or tie— of Namimori High. The rest are in street clothes, hats pulled low to their eyes, oversized jackets like the Korean hip-hop artists Akiko’s obsessed with, jeans and scuffed-up shoes. They smell like smoke, and they have enough glittering silver chains and facial piercings between the four of them to stock a jewelry store. It would almost be comical, if they weren’t all eying Shoichi in his school uniform with a predatory interest.

Damn his uniform. Just because he attends a private high school, they think he’s a good target for a mugging. He might as well have painted a target on his chest.

 _Well,_ says the more sensible part of him. _You might have heard them coming if you actually paid attention._

Thank you, hindsight.

“Hey there, Yumei,” says the one who has him by the collar. It’s hard to tell if he’s the leader, or just the muscle. Either way, he’s definitely the biggest and the tallest of the lot. “Have anything to share today?”

Yumei, because of his uniform. It would be almost cute, if only Shoichi could get his legs to stop quivering. He feels the onset of a familiar ache in his gut, settling halfway between dread and panic.

They steer him away from the bus stop, to a quiet little alcove that’s out of view to all but the very nearest part of the street. It’s smaller, too, which limits his chances of escape. That’s when he starts to really sweat. Because the thing is, Shoichi doesn’t carry much cash on him. He doesn’t _have_ much cash. He’s no rich kid; they’ve always had enough to go around and keep food on the table, but he’s in Yumei on a scholarship. The only money he carries is change for the school vending machines and 500 yen for an emergency bus ride home.

He doesn’t want to think what they might do if they decide they’re disappointed. Or worse, if they decide they’re skeptical.

“Look, I’ll give you my wallet,” he babbles meaninglessly. “There’s not much in it, but you can have it. Please, just let me go to school. I won’t even tell anyone.”

“Real tough guy,” comments one of the boys in the back, and laughs.

The one holding him laughs too, and fishes Shoichi’s wallet out of his bag. He tosses it to one of his friends, the one in a low-slung jacket with the hood pulled up; the friend rifles through it and scowls. “Are you kidding me? What are you, an old lady buying groceries? We didn’t ask for a coin purse, _ma_ _’am_.”

“It’s all I have.”

His voice doesn’t even waver, despite feeling like his stomach is one big frozen knot. Shoichi Irie, surprisingly cool under pressure. Who’d have guessed? Unfortunately, it comes off a little too calm, a little too close to insulting. He doesn’t even realize he’s pissed off Delinquent #1 until he’s gagging, crouched over on himself, gasping for breath. Punched right in the diaphragm.

“I don’t fucking think so. Try a little harder.”

God, what has he gotten himself into? He should’ve just kept his mouth shut. Shoichi looks up helplessly and spreads his hands in the universal gesture for _I_ _’ve got nothing_. “I’m sorry.”

“Check his bag,” orders last kid. He’s wearing a dark hoodie and sunglasses, and he’s the shortest of the four. Surprising that he’d be the leader, but appearances aren’t everything. “And his pockets.”

Nothing in his pockets, as Delinquent #1 confirms. Brown Hat checks the bag and— as Shoichi could’ve predicted— comes up with nothing but a few notebooks, a CD case, and an MP3 player. “Nothing here, Touma.”

With no one holding him down, Shoichi backs up until he feels the wall behind him. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere they wouldn’t be able to drag him back in a matter of seconds. He’d be leaving his bag behind, and all his notebooks. He’s not sure if he’s more scared about getting beat up, or that they might take a shine to his headphones and CDs in place of the cash they’d hoped for. It’s a collection he’s curated lovingly for years, and the idea of losing it all at once makes his blood go cold.

Touma— or whatever they’re calling him— narrows his eyes. “Waste of fucking time.”

It’s a command, or it has the force of one. Delinquent #1 smiles unpleasantly, and Shoichi realizes with a sickening jolt that no, he won’t be getting to class on time.

He glances at the road, hoping desperately for a last-minute rescue. Then he gapes _,_ because _someone’s actually there_.

A kid in a Namimori High uniform— tan blazer and pants, navy tie over a dress shirt— is staring at them with wide eyes. Almost as soon as Shoichi sees him, his hopes fade away. The kid is even smaller than he is, barely five feet tall with a mess of brown hair making up the difference. He looks like a strong wind would send him tumbling down the street. His eyes dart from Touma to Shoichi, and for half a second, he looks _panicked._

Then his eyes gleam like fire, and he says, “Leave him alone.”

 _What_?

Brown Hat laughs again, and after a moment so do his friends. Touma makes a vague hand gesture and Delinquent #1 lurches forward, reaching out to grab the kid.

Calmly, languidly, the Namimori boy seizes Delinquent #1’s wrist. He turns on his heel and swings out a foot to knock the older boy’s feet out from under him. Then, with force that shouldn’t be possible for such a small kid, he brings his left elbow down on Delinquent #1’s forearm. There’s a horrible cracking sound, and Delinquent #1 screams.

The Namimori kid lets go, and the older boy slumps to the ground with his hand clutching his arm. He turns to Touma, and—

_Is his head on fire?_

It’s a ridiculous idea. That’s not how flames work; Shoichi knows that perfectly well. That doesn’t stop his eyes from obstinately insisting to his brain that there’s a softly flickering orange flame right in the middle of the Namimori student’s face.

 _Maybe I am dreaming_ , he thinks weakly— but no, the sharp pain in his stomach is enough to put the lie to that idea. Hallucination is still a distinct possibility.

“What the fuck _are_ you?” says Touma, sounding strangled. Does he see the flames too?

“You can go now,” the Namimori kid answers. His voice is level, confident, and strangely detached considering he just broke someone’s arm. He’s not even out of breath. “Leave his things behind, and we can call it even.”

The third kid, the one who’d been going through Shoichi’s wallet, throws it to the ground like it burned him. His eyes dart from Touma, to Shoichi, to the Namimori kid. Then he says, “Sorry, man, I didn’t sign up for this shit,” and sprints down the sidewalk with his hood pulled down.

Shoichi’s tempted to follow him.

As he’s distracted, someone grabs him hard from behind. He falls back with a yell, and then there’s the cold press of metal against his ear. The person behind him—probably Touma— smells thickly of smoke. “One more step,” he says, breathing heavily. “Take one more step, and your ginger friend is going home lopsided.”

In a way, it’s scarier than if he’d threatened to kill Shoichi. Maybe because it seems like he’s actually willing to go through with the threat. He can feel the knife sharp under the lobe of his ear, cutting into his skin— oh, god.

Namimori boy frowns. Like he’s _displeased_ , not like he’s _scared_ , and Shoichi is not at all sure he wants his dismemberment or lack thereof resting on this psychotic burning kid’s shoulders. “Let him go.”

“Are you kidding?” says Touma. “Get out of here and your buddy walks. I’ll decide how many pieces he’s in.”

So that’s why he’s the leader of his crew; he’s the most ruthless, and possibly the craziest.

“That was your last chance,” says the Namimori kid.

Shoichi doesn’t quite see what happens next. What he can follow goes like this:

Namimori kid moves fast, and for a second, it’s like he vanishes. Then Touma lets out a choked sound and the knife against Shoichi’s ear jerks, just enough to make the side of his face suddenly searing with pain. Someone shoves Shoichi down. He lands hard on his palms, and rolls over on reflex. That’s when he sees Touma on the ground, seemingly unconscious, and Brown Hat is slumping over as Namimori kid punches him in the gut. _Not all that different_ , he thinks with a moment’s vindictiveness, _from what they did to me._

Brown Hat’s eyes are still fluttering as he hits the ground. Shoichi doesn’t blame him for pretending. It’s probably the safer move.

He touches his ear, and it comes away bloody. But when he gingerly pulls at his earlobe, he realizes the cut itself isn’t so bad. Just a little nick.

“Thanks,” he says. “Uh, who _are_ you?”

Namimori boy turns to look at him— and just like that, the orange flame on his face vanishes. His eyes go huge, and he looks at Shoichi like _he_ _’s_ the one who just terrified the shit out of four gangsters without breaking a sweat. “You’re bleeding,” he says. Then he looks down at the slumped bodies in front of him, and his hands go to his mouth. “I… oh, no. This was a bad idea.”

“I don’t know about that. I’m in favor, anyway,” Shoichi admits warily. Then he glances around. “I, uh, guess we should call the—”

He’s not even finished with the sentence when the Namimori boy lets out a _whuff_ , suddenly winded, and falls to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut. For a second Shoichi thinks he’s just having a panic attack; then he realizes the boy is actually shuddering, like his whole body hurts.

Alarmed, he crawls over, forgetting about his own bleeding ear. “Hey, man, are you okay? Did they hit you somewhere?”

“Tsuna! Tsuna, where are you?”

The voice from the sidewalk makes Shoichi look up sharply. It’s another boy in the Namimori High uniform, tall and tanned, and two girls following in his wake. They’re looking for someone, and Shoichi has an uncomfortable inkling that he knows who it is. He raises his voice. “Over here!”

The tall kid’s eyes go wide when he sees the carnage. Pretty reasonably: there’s Shoichi with blood dripping onto his uniform, two unconscious teenagers, one moaning quietly on the ground, and the Namimori kid— _Tsuna_ , he’d be willing to bet— slumped over and clutching his own elbows like he’s trying to hold himself together.

He rushes over to Tsuna, just as he finally falls unconscious. Then his eyes fix on Shoichi, bewildered and still somehow sharp. “What the heck happened?”

_I wish I knew._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes, Shoichi is the damsel in this story; didn't I tell you?
> 
> (jk they're all superheroes)


	3. Radiate, part 2

Kyoko's seen more than her share of back-alley brawls, much to her dismay.

So when she sees not one, but five injured kids in the alley— and Tsuna is one of them— it's just a matter of habit to look around and start cataloging injuries. There's the redheaded boy, with a cut on his head that doesn't look too serious. Three boys on the ground, one unconscious, one faking. One clutching his arm in to his chest in a way that means it's probably broken, or at least sprained. Then there's Tsuna, who's _definitely_ unconscious, although it's not immediately clear why.

She gets to work, kneeling down by Tsuna and shooing the boys away for space. His pulse is steady, his skin a little sweaty. Not much reaction when she rolls up his eyelids, but his chest is rising and falling evenly. So, passed out, but not in urgent danger. "What happened to him? Did you see him get hit anywhere?"

"No," says the redheaded boy. He's looking a little wild-eyed, like he's not sure if they're here to help or make things worse. "He just fell."

It's been a while since she's had to check someone for a concussion, but she skims her fingers through his hair anyway. No obvious lumps, no bruising. His neck isn't oddly bent. Kyoko tucks her hair behind her ears and starts unbuttoning Tsuna's shirt; the redheaded boy makes a strangled noise.

"Oh, give it a rest," says Hana, because Hana is the best kind of friend. "It's first aid, don't be a child. And you— I think it's time you explained what's going on."

"You think I know?" says the redheaded boy. "I just got mugged, and then _he_ came along and jumped in, and then _you_ came along. Aren't you his friends? I should be asking you."

Kyoko tunes them out. Whatever happened, it'll come to light eventually, when Tsuna wakes up. Right now, she's busy scanning his skin for broken bones and bruises, or— god forbid— blood. But there's nothing. Not even any signs of internal bleeding. Which is good, but doesn't exactly answer the question of why he's passed out. If it's not blood loss and it's not blunt force trauma, then it could be some weird brain chemistry thing, and she has no idea how to handle that.

"I think we should get him to a hospital," she says, frowning.

Then she looks up,  just as she sees the expression on Hana's face change from suspicion to alarm. "Kyoko, watch out—!"

She turns around too slowly, but by the time she sees the thug looming over her, everything's already over. He makes a choked sound, and collapses to the ground. Behind him stands Yamamoto, one hand still raised from a clean right hook.

"We'd better tie these guys up,” he says. “And maybe, yeah, call the cops?"

"No objections here," mutters the redheaded boy. Then he blanches. "Oh, crap, I've gotta tell Spanner what happened."

He goes to fetch his phone— along with the rest of the things in his bag, which had been scattered across the ground by the muggers— and Yamamoto dials for the police. Hana crouches down next to Kyoko, in the guise of inspecting Tsuna's limp body. "So, what's your take? You think the ginger kid is telling the truth?"

"Hm?"

"There's no way, right?" Hana's frowning at Tsuna pensively. "You've seen Tsuna in gym class. He can't do a sit-up, let alone take out a bunch of delinquents. The kid's a wuss. And now suddenly we're supposed to believe he sprinted four city blocks, jumped in the middle of a mugging in progress, saved the day, and then passed out?"

"Why would he lie?" says Kyoko, after a moment's thought.

"They're teenage boys; when _don't_ they lie? Especially if they're trying to salvage their pride."

Oh, Hana. She's never liked boys much, but ever since that incident with Mochida in middle school, she's been inclined to think the worst of the entire gender. It's kind of sad that she's an only child. She doesn't get the same perspective that Kyoko does, having an older brother. "I think he's telling the truth about getting attacked, anyway," she says diplomatically. "That cut on his ear needs looking at. What was his name?"

"Shoichi Irie. He's a first-year in the high school at Yumei Academy."

Kyoko nods, and straightens, brushing off her palms on her skirt. She still has her bag with her, and there are bandages and some disinfectant in one of the pockets. Her brother might have sworn off brawling outside the ring, but he still manages to acquire a host of injuries when she's not around. She's learned to be prepared.

"Irie?" she says, softly, trying not to spook him. "Excuse me. I'm Kyoko Sasagawa. I have some bandages; if you don't mind, I can clean up your ear?"

He looks up from his phone, where he's been frantically typing a message to someone. Then he glances down at his blood-spattered shoulder in surprise, like he'd completely forgotten about his injury. "Oh," he says, and his hand goes to his ear. "Thanks. That would be great."

So she steers him to the bus bench and sits him down, and uses one of her own hair clips to pin his hair out of the way. It's a darker red than hers, which is already fairly eye-catching. Irie sits a little uncomfortably, not quite meeting her eyes. Well, he probably feels a little awkward. They didn't meet in the best of circumstances.

"Sounds like you've had a long morning," she says, trying to distract him as she wipes some of the blood from his neck. "Do you have any other injuries?"

"No, I'm fine. It was Tsuna— Sawada, that is— who did most of the fighting." He winces, but mostly he's doing a good job of keeping still. Ryohei would be wiggling like a little kid at the first sting of alcohol. "You guys are friends with him, right? Has he ever— do you know if— is this, uh, unusual for him?"

"Sorry, I couldn’t say. I don't actually know Tsuna all that well."

"But you all call him by his first name," says Irie, which is a fair point. "And you showed up here looking for him. I figured you must at least be childhood friends or something?"

She hums. "Well, we all went to the same middle school. I guess it's just habit by now. Anyway, we were on our way to school, when he started running the other way. I thought maybe he was nervous about the class project we were working on. Tsuna doesn't like school very much."

“But—” he begins, and then shakes his head, letting the subject drop. After a pause, he says, “You’re good at this.”

“I have a big brother,” she explains. “He’s a boxer, and he’s injury-prone. I’ve patched him up plenty of times.”

“A boxer? Not that guy in the sweater?”

“You know Ryohei?”

“Well, no. But he’s hard to miss. He runs through my neighborhood every morning.”

“That’s him, all right. He thinks shouting is good for the lungs.” Kyoko pats the bandage down one more time, and pulls the pin from Irie's hair. "All done. Just leave it covered, and it should be fine in a few days."

"Thanks," Irie says again. Then he looks down at his school blazer, which is folded in his lap, and his shoulders slump. "I don't suppose you know how to get blood out of fabric? My mom is gonna freak if this stains."

She laughs. "Peroxide usually does the trick. Just let it sit and then rinse it out."

“Right. Okay.” He lets out a slightly shaky breath, and it’s obvious a stained uniform is the least of his worries right now. His eyes keep darting to Tsuna, and to the thugs Yamamoto and Hana are keeping watch over. “I guess… I’m probably not making it to class today anyway, am I?”

Oh, poor guy. Kyoko pats his shoulder.

“Let’s go wait by the road,” she says. “We can flag down the police when they get here.”

* * *

The list of things Takeshi doesn't like is short, but right up at the top is _hospitals._

Not that it’s anything about the building itself.  Namimori General is clean and fresh-looking, with wide windows and billowing curtains, and there’s soft music playing in the lobby. The receptionist smiles at them, even though she should probably look alarmed. A whole troupe of teenagers, some injured, with a pair of cops escorting them? Yikes.

But in his head, he’s five years old, sitting by his mom’s bedside as they cover her face with a white cloth. In his head, he’s thirteen, he just tried to jump off the school roof, and his dad is crying.

Man, his head can be really dumb sometimes.

Luckily, Kurokawa and Sasagawa are walking in front, and they don’t notice the way his smile spasms and has to be plastered back up. The boy in glasses, Irie, is typing out a message to someone on his phone. He’s still the most confusing part of this whole thing, Takeshi decides, because it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that he’s lying through his teeth about half the details, and completely sincere about the other half.

“Take it easy,” says one of the cops, misconstruing his expression. “Your friend will be fine. Scuffles like this happen all the time.”

He smiles. “I guess you’re right.”

Another thing Takeshi doesn’t like about hospitals is the waiting. After the officer explains the situation, the hospital staff usher Tsuna off into a temp room and arrange to call his parents, and the rest of them sit and wait, sit and wait, for almost an hour before they hear anything more.

At the forty-five minute mark, a woman bursts in who can only be Ms. Sawada. She’s the spitting image of Tsuna: small, with the same striking brown eyes and narrow shoulders. But she seems to be made sterner stuff than her son, as she speaks quietly with the receptionist, mouth pressed into a line. The receptionist says something in a soothing tone, then points her across the lobby to where Takeshi and the others have claimed a sofa.

“You’re Tsu-kun’s friends?” she asks warmly, although there’s no hiding the worry in her eyes. “Thank you so much for bringing him here. Is he— when you saw him, was he—?”

“Kyoko looked him over,” says Kurokawa. “She’s done a lot of first aid. Kyoko?”

“I don’t think he was in very bad shape,” agrees Sasagawa, tentatively. “Or, he was stable, anyway, and he was breathing fine. It’s probably better to wait for the doctor’s okay, though.”

Ms. Sawada nods, and takes a slightly shaky breath. “I see. Thank you.”

That’s when Irie stands up from the sofa, hands squeezed into fists in his pockets. “I’m sorry,” he says. “He only got hurt because he was trying to help me. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be a lot worse off. I know that’s selfish of me, but... I’m glad he was there.”

At first, Tsuna’s mom only looks surprised and a bit confused. Then she smiles, and it’s a weirdly comforting look. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m sure Tsuna doesn’t regret it. So you shouldn’t either, okay?”

Irie nods. He still won’t meet her eyes.

“Now,” she says, looking around. “I’ve heard so much about all of you, but I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced. You must be Takeshi Yamamoto, is that right? You look just like your father...”

From Ms. Sawada’s easy familiarity, it’s obvious Tsuna’s talked a lot about them at home. She can guess all their names by appearance. She knows the scores of Takeshi’s recent baseball games, and Sasagawa’s set design contributions to the theater club. She knows Kurokawa is top of the class and that the two girls are inseparable friends. It’s touching, and a little sad; Takeshi can count on one hand the number of things he knows about Tsuna’s life.

At last, a nurse comes and says they’re allowed to see Tsuna now.

“Don’t be shocked,” he warns them. “We set him up with an IV drip, but it’s not as bad as it looks.”

Takeshi’s stomach clenches as he follows Sasagawa and Tsuna’s mom into the hospital room. It _does_ look pretty bad. Tsuna’s pale and motionless in the white hospital sheets, with a narrow plastic tube protruding from one arm. They don’t have him on oxygen or anything, but there’s a machine to one side like they’d considered it.

“He’s very dehydrated, and it seems like he really overtaxed himself, but there’s no serious injury or head trauma.”

“He’s okay?” says Irie. “Why did he pass out, then?”

“As far as we can tell, he was unconscious only briefly. Possibly as a side effect of the dehydration.” The nurse smiles. “Right now, he’s responsive to stimulus. He’s just sleeping, in other words. He’ll be back up— and unhappy about it— within a few hours.”

Sasagawa sighs, and even Kurokawa’s mouth curves up in a smile. Ms. Sawada leans against the side of the bed and pats her son’s cheek. “Oh, Tsu-kun. Always getting into trouble.”

“We’d like to discuss some things in private, if you have the time,” says the nurse. “We can keep him for overnight observation, but of course it’s ultimately your decision…” He trails off, and then gives a meaningful glance at Takeshi and the others.

“Oh, they can stay, of course,” says Tsuna’s mom. “I’m sure it would mean a lot to him to see his friends when he wakes up.”

Sasagawa smiles, and Kurokawa gets a slightly fixed expression on her face; obviously she’d hoped they’d get the chance to make it to class today. Irie only nods, and it’s unclear if the doctor’s diagnosis made him feel better about Tsuna’s condition or worse. Takeshi... well, he hadn’t planned on spending the day in the hospital, and he’s already feeling jittery from the last hour of waiting. But in the end, Ms. Sawada is right. It’s no fun to wake up alone and hurt.

So he grins and says, “I’ve got a pack of cards. Who’s up for a game?”

* * *

_It hurts._

Tsuna’s whole body is an amalgam of soreness, stretching down his legs and arms with a blanketing hurt. In places, there are highlights of pain. His left elbow, the knuckles on his right hand, the base of his palm. Inside his skull, too, like the headache after a caffeine crash. And more than anything, he feels like he’s drifting in a hot sea of exhaustion, fraying the edges of his thoughts, making all the pain feel, not milder, but somehow more distant.

 Tsuna can feel the strain on every fiber of muscle as his ribcage rises and falls, as his lungs push air up his trachea. His heartbeat echoes numbly in his ears. There are voices.

"Two sixes."

"BS, Kyoko. Don't make that face at me."

"You've won the last four games, Hana! Give the rest of us a chance."

"But I have the sixes." That's Yamamoto's voice, sounding bemused. "How'd you know?"

"You only have the sixes because I gave them to you on fours. BS, by the way," she adds, and another boy sighs, and there's the sound of someone picking up cards. "Maybe we should go back to poker. You guys are terrible at this game."

"What, are you trying to hustle us?" grouses the boy, the one who’s unfamiliar. Then he pauses. "Hey, did Sawada just move?"

Tsuna blinks. With an effort, he turns his head to the right, in the direction of the voices. Like watercolors mixing, the world blurs into view, and he sees the pale green drapes and clean white walls of a hospital room. There's a wide window with curtains, and a fold-out sofa with some chairs, and some playing cards spread out on a folding table. Four faces watch him with rapt attention: Kyoko, Kurokawa, Yamamoto, and one other boy who seems vaguely familiar.

"What happened?" he croaks, and they all jump up and rush over in a commotion.

"Tsuna!" says Yamamoto, grinning. "You're up! How're you feeling?"

"Uh, it hurts. Like, everywhere. But I think I'm okay?"

Barring weird delusions, and the sandpapery feeling in his mouth. Speaking of which— his eyes fall to his arm, which is taped over with a patch of gauze. Underneath, plastic tubing loops up and connects to a bag of liquid. Like a saline drip, right? Which means under the gauze— he swallows back his gag reflex. Oh, god. An IV. That means there's a _needle_ in his _arm_.

He forces himself to look up, at the nonthreatening white walls. He doesn't want to throw up in front of Kyoko.

"Congratulations, Tsuna," says Kurokawa dryly. "You're officially the worst group partner I've ever had. Next time, try to stay out of the hospital, okay?"

"I'm in the hospital," he echoes. "I'm in the— what happened? What about—?"

Then his eyes fall on the redheaded boy, the one standing uncomfortably just behind Kyoko with his hands in his pockets and a bandage on his ear, and it all comes flooding back to him in a horrible sense of fire and blood in his mouth and bone giving way under his arm, and feeling like a marionette as cold certainty took hold of his limbs. And the redheaded boy saw every single second of it.

Did he tell them? There's no way Tsuna would ever live it down. He's spent every day of high school trying to slide under the radar, trying to become boring Tsuna instead of just weird, funny, Loser Tsuna. The last thing he needs is someone spreading rumors about him being some kind of flame-wielding psychopath. Which apparently he _is_.

Kyoko at least is looking at him with concern, so maybe the secret is still under wraps.

"You got in a fight," she says, and there's an edge of disapproval in her voice. "I know you just wanted to help Irie, but you should have called the police! There's no point letting yourself get hurt because of awful people like them."

"Sorry?” he says, bewildered. “I'm glad you're okay, though, uh... Irie?"

"Yeah, Shoichi Irie." He looks different in the hospital than he had before, crouched over in the alley. He's taller than Tsuna remembers, for one thing; not quite as tall as Yamamoto, but still enough to make Kyoko and Kurokawa look small. He still has the headphones around his neck, and his red hair spikes up on one side, unable to lie flat over the bandage on his ear. "I appreciate the help. Sorry for the trouble."

Tsuna nods, and gives him a faint questioning look.

Irie shakes his head.

 _Oh_. The pressure of fear on his shoulders lifts away, and Tsuna can breathe easier. It's still weird, having this pact of secrecy with a boy he's never met for reasons he doesn't understand, but at least he can have the reassurance that his classmates don't have to know about it.

“You should probably give your mom a call," says Yamamoto, oblivious to their exchange of looks. "She was just here, but she went out to get us all lunch. You never said your mom was so nice, Tsuna!"

He winces. "Is she okay?"

"A little worried. But once the doctor explained everything, she was doing better. She said you had a bad fever last night. If that's true, you shouldn't've come to the meeting."

"I was over it," Tsuna says, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. Although now he says it, he wonders if it's true. Maybe there hadn't been the fever, but there was something strange with his head that morning. For him, that inexplicable confidence should've been as much a warning sign as the symptoms of illness. "I thought so, anyway. Sorry. I guess we missed our project?"

"I contacted the teacher." Kurokawa folds her arms. "You're lucky I've got a good reputation, and I'm kind enough to use it to cover for you. We can make it up tomorrow, or whenever you're back in class."

"Thank you," he says, because that's the answer she's looking for. Not that he's excited at the prospect of stumbling through the project under his teacher's critical eye. Then again, his classmates could have kept on to school without him, and let him fail while they got a fair grade. Instead they've been sitting around here, waiting for him to wake up. Even Kurokawa.

"You'd better not slack off after all this," she says, but her words aren't heated. "And next time you want to run off, do me a favor and give one of us a heads-up. It’ll give us time to knock you back to your senses and drag you to school anyway.”

It’s the most Kurokawa-like way of showing concern. He probably shouldn’t feel pleased about it, but he does.

* * *

He’s dismissed from the hospital to his mom’s care eventually, once the doctor comes by and gives him a clean bill of health. Lots of liquids, gentle stretches, and bed rest is his only further treatment. As soon as he tries to stand up, he figures out why: apparently, he’d managed to sprain every single muscle in his body. What _happened_ to him?

His classmates head home, one by one, each giving him their version of a _get well soon_. For Kurokawa, it’s an irate scowl. Kyoko tells him to get lots of rest and take vitamins. Yamamoto pats him on the back. Irie only nods, an unreadable look in his eyes, and Tsuna feels bad all over again for throwing a wrench into the guy’s day.

It feels like it’s been years by the time Tsuna finally gets back to his own room, his own bed. Still in his school uniform, for all he’d never made it to class that morning. There’s still last night’s honey tea on his bedside table, even though it’s cold as ice. He picks it up, half meaning to take it downstairs, but winds up just staring down at his reflection in the liquid.

He doesn’t look like a hero, the kind of guy who breaks up fights. He doesn't look like the bully who starts them. He doesn’t look like he’s fresh out of the hospital either. He just looks how he feels: tired, like a million years of sleep wouldn’t be enough.

 _Is now a good time?_ says a voice. _I thought it would be better to wait until your friends weren_ _’t around._

There’s a man sitting at the foot of his bed.

Tsuna screams, and throws the cup of tea on reflex. It goes sailing straight through the man’s head, pinwheeling tea all across his bed and carpet. The cup smashes into his wall, the handle breaks off, bits of china sail across the room, and the hallucination barely bats an eyelash.

“Tsu-kun?” comes the call from downstairs. “What was that?”

He tries to make words, but his voice doesn’t seem to be working. He stumbles back and falls onto his bed.

The man is, what, a European? It seems like a pointless distinction when he’s obviously not human at all. But he’s blond, with eyes the color of fire, and he’s wearing the most absurd getup Tsuna’s ever seen. A pinstriped silk vest and tie, dark slacks and metal-braced gloves. And is that a _cape_ he’s wearing, fastened with a chain in front and lined in red satin? The guy looks like a cross between a vampire and a circus ringmaster.

 _Do I?_ says the hallucination, or ghost, or whatever. _It always did feel a bit like I was running a circus._

Then he laughs to himself, like he just made a clever joke, and Tsuna hears his mom’s footsteps on the stairs. He leaps up from his bed and rushes to the door. “Don’t come in!” he shouts, heart racing. “I-- I just dropped something! I’ll clean it up!”

“Are you sure? Don’t tire yourself, okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he calls back, hoping she can’t hear the hoarseness of his voice. “Don’t worry about it!”

 _There_ _’s no need to worry,_ comments the man. _I_ _’ve been with you most of the day. I’m perfectly capable of staying unseen when I want to._

“It’s you. You were the voice in my head.”

 _I_ _’m Giotto._ The man's smile fades. _I'm glad we finally get the chance to talk face-to-face. Well, as it were._

"You're not real." He swallows. "Are you?"

Please let him say no, let him say no. What would it even matter, one way or another? Is it better if you hear from your hallucinations that you're insane, or if you let them talk you around to believing in them?

 _I'm afraid so. In a manner of speaking, at least._ Giotto sighs. He's perched at the foot of Tsuna’s bed as if he were actually there, crossing his legs like a cat. _I'm not exactly alive, but I used to be. That would make me a sort of ghost, from your perspective._

"A ghost," repeats Tsuna, staring down at the broken pieces of his mug on the carpet. “A _ghost?_ _”_ he says again, more shrilly, as the memories of the morning take on a new, more horrifying hue. “That was _you_ , getting in my head and making me do all that crazy stuff?”

_All what crazy stuff?_

“I broke his arm!” babbles Tsuna, and he can still feel the bone giving way under his elbow. “I hit that other guy so hard he _passed out._ They were scared of me. I scared them!” He had even scared Irie, he remembers. The way he’d stared as Tsuna cut down his attackers one after another, like he wasn’t sure if he would be the next target.

 _Oh, dear._ Giotto’s expression goes unexpectedly soft, almost pitying. _No, Tsunayoshi. That was all you._

“That’s impossible.” As impossible as a conversation with a ghost. “It was something else, in my head. You don’t know what I’m like. I get beat up every other week. I don’t jump into fights, I run away from them. I’m a coward.”

 _It_ _’s easy to be a coward when you’re the only one who’s hurt by it,_ says Giotto calmly. _Better, even_. _It_ _’s different when someone else is in danger._

“You’re wrong.”

The ghost considers, for a long moment, and his eyes are unreadable. Then he smiles, in a way that makes Tsuna's hair raise on the back of his neck. _Your mother is downstairs. She_ _’s cutting vegetables with a sharp knife. She’s good at it, but it wouldn’t be hard to make her hand slip._

Tsuna’s been on the receiving end of enough threats in his life that it doesn’t take him long to get the point. His heart stops pounding and lodges somewhere in his throat, and he can picture it clearly-- a knife clattering, blood on the kitchen tiles.

And part of him is flinching back, wanting to curl up and run, hide away from the world, get away from those terrifying flame eyes. _Run, rabbit, run_. But if he runs, if he cowers and saves his own skin, there won’t be anything left between this thing and mom. There’s only Tsuna. That thought catches fire like dry tinder, and the edges of his mind go hot and hard and then suddenly clear, the way coal becomes diamond under pressure.

“I’ll kill you,” he says, and the words fall from his mouth almost reluctantly. He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t even know if he _can_ , but if Giotto comes anywhere near hurting his mom, he will find a way.

 _You would certainly try_ , says Giotto, and then all the ice is gone from his eyes, and he's harmless again. Harmless and a little ridiculous. _It_ _’s in your blood._

Tsuna realizes that he has a piece of broken china in his hand, pressed hard into his skin. He’s holding it like a weapon. When did that happen? What was he planning to do with it, for that matter? It’s obvious Giotto’s attitude toward physical objects is one of polite indifference. It takes a conscious effort to open his hand and let the china fall to the ground. He lifts a shaking hand to his face.

“I’m going crazy,” he says.

 _It_ _’s not your fault,_ says Giotto, which isn’t exactly the same as a no. _If you hadn_ _’t been sealed for so long, you would’ve been used to the feeling. Skies are… territorial, by nature. Or perhaps overprotective is the better word. It’s why we need the rest of the elements to balance us, keep us grounded._

Tsuna would say he’s never been more bewildered in his life, but sadly bewilderment has been his constant state of existence for as long as he can remember. He’s used to it by now. Math, English, girls, and now ghosts.

 _It can be confusing,_ concedes Giotto _. And there_ _’s no need to get into the details. Suffice to say, you’ve spent most of your life with your protective instinct— let’s call it flames— tamped down. Ostensibly for your protection, but it doesn’t hurt that it made things more convenient for Timoteo to keep you out of the fray._

“Who?”

 _But everything has a tipping point, and, well, you inherited the family problem more enthusiastically than most,_ says the ghost, blatantly ignoring him. _The seal breaks, you narrowly avoid burning alive, and now you_ _’re dealing with ten years’ worth of irrational overprotectiveness and no adjustment period._

Hold up. “Did you just say I nearly _burned alive_?”

 _Oh, yes. Flames are tricky like that. We never really understood them, even to the end, but let_ _’s say you take one-third mental state, one-third willpower, and one-third actual energy and put it into a human crucible._ Giotto spreads his hands; between the cape and the gloves he looks like a stage magician telling a dramatic story. _The end result will be useful and tremendously adaptable, but it also puts off a substantial amount of heat._

Heat. So when Tsuna had been sitting in this very bed, convinced that his skin was peeling away into ash, that his blood was scalding his veins, that his head was on fire--

 _Easily, given a few more hours_.

Oh, god.

 _Luckily for you, the sudden concentration of Sky flames was enough to summon me here._ Giotto frowns at him, like he’s an unsolved puzzle. _It shouldn_ _’t have. You’d need the ring_ and _my consent_ , _and I know perfectly well the ring is with Massimo in Italy._

Tsuna considers asking for clarification, and then decides he really doesn’t want to know. Ever. “So when I dreamed someone was pulling away my fever…?”

 _Well, I couldn_ _’t just leave you to die._ He looks a little sheepish. _Like I said, skies tend to be overprotective. I was able to siphon some of your flames away until your body adjusted. It seems my actions weren_ _’t without consequences._

It takes a while for the implications to register, but when they do, Tsuna's mouth drops open. "You mean that's why you've been following me around?"

_I'm as surprised as you. I thought I would have returned to my dormant place in the ring before you woke up in the morning. Then, when you went to meet with your friends, I was pulled along with you. But you couldn't see me._

“So you aren’t…” He trails off uncomfortably. “You don’t think you’ll, eventually, you know… fade away? Go back to the afterlife, or sleeping, or wherever?”

_I suppose we'_ _ll see._

He falls back onto his bed with a _whump_ , staring at the ceiling. It’s too crazy. All of this, it doesn’t fit into his life. He’s Tsuna, the local loser. All he’s wanted since the start of high school is just to fade away, to make it through one day to the next. What is he supposed to do with a ghost? What’s he supposed to do with a fire burning in his head that pushes him to save people he doesn’t even know?

Guiltily, he remembers the look on Irie’s face. Not after he saw Tsuna, but before. When he’d looked from one face to another, and then finally turned to the road like he was looking for a rescue that would never come. His heart twinges.

“It’s going to happen again." It’s not a question. “The flames thing. I’m going to lose control and—”

Hurt people.

 _I_ _’d like to tell you no,_ says Giotto apologetically. _But_ _staying in control takes practice. Guardians— friends— can help. They can rein you in when you lose touch. They give you something tangible to focus on. But in the end, it’s on you._

It doesn’t make any sense. Tsuna wants to just roll over and cover his head with a pillow. He wants to rewind the clock to yesterday morning, when all he had to worry about was getting to the coffee shop on time for his meeting with Kyoko and Kurokawa and Yamamoto.

 _I_ _’m sorry. Things would have been easier that way_.

He doesn’t answer Giotto. He can’t find the energy himself to manage it, to talk back to the voice in his head. Like talking to a little kid who’s acting out: don’t react, don’t respond, you’ll only encourage them.

That’s when he hears, distantly, the doorbell ring.

Mom’s footsteps, muffled by slippers, shuffle over to the door, from her bedroom on the first floor. There’s a creak as the door opens, then a murmured exchange of words. She says something cheerful, and there’s a nearly-inaudible response. Then she says brightly, “Tsu-kun! Your friend is here! I’ll send him upstairs, okay?”

His friend? Tsuna doesn’t have any friends.

He pushes himself up, still trying very hard to ignore the presence of Giotto sitting at the foot of his bed. He can hear footsteps coming up the stairs, so he goes to the door and opens it, with half a glance back at his room to assure himself it’s presentable. (It isn’t. There’s still his school uniform on the ground, and a stack of old magazines, and some crumpled papers from his backpack littering the carpet, and a smashed mug, and tea soaking into the carpet.) He opens the door anyway.

“Hey,” says Shoichi Irie, looking extremely uncomfortable. “Sorry to bother you. Is this a good time?”

It’s been barely fifteen minutes since the last time someone asked Tsuna that question, and it only took fifteen minutes for his life to get turned on its head.

“As good a time as any,” he says tiredly. “My day can’t go downhill from here.”

Understandably, Irie looks at him like he’s crazy. He shuffles inside anyway, holding his backpack to his chest. When Tsuna points at his desk chair, he sits.

“So,” he begins. “I know I already said it, but, uh, thank you. For sort of coming to my rescue, I mean. I didn’t expect anyone to be there, you know?”

“I don’t usually do that kind of thing," Tsuna says, sitting back on his bed. "You don't need to thank me." He’s not a hero. He holds onto that thought with a disturbing amount of satisfaction.

Irie doesn’t seem bothered. “Yeah. I heard about that.”

Of course. Kurokawa and Yamamoto, they would’ve told him. What had they thought, when they found him passed out in an alley with some redheaded teen trying to explain that he’d somehow gone superhero?

“I… I saw everything, you know,” says Irie. “That’s not a threat or anything. Just the truth. I mean, I was watching the whole time from when you showed up. If it’s some kind of secret, I understand. But the whole thing— the fire on your forehead, and your sort of sudden—” He waves his hand vaguely; the meaning is obvious. “If you wanted to talk about it with someone, or if you ever need help… call me.”

He saw everything. He saw _everything_. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed quite real until he said that. Like having an external witness made everything true, factual in a way it hadn’t been before. It really happened.

“Help with what?"

"If anything like that comes up again." So much for his efforts to play dumb. "Maybe you'll need some help. You saw I'm not much good in a fight. But if there's anything I can do, even if it's just an alibi, I owe you one." Irie laughs, self-deprecating. "I owe you a dozen at least."

“It won't happen again," he lies. Tsuna can still feel the heat in his chest. It's small right now, a baby-bird heartbeat of warmth fluttering under his skin. But it's not gone. He remembers, when he saw Irie surrounded and frightened, that flame had _roared._ "I'm just trying to pass my classes. I don't have time for... anything else."

“That's too bad,” says Irie, undeterred. “Maybe I'm an outsider. But from my perspective, you did a good thing." He reaches into a pocket. "Here. It’s my cell phone number. If you need me— or if you just need someone to talk to— I’m here. Whenever.”

He offers a piece of paper. As promised, there’s a phone number listed on it, next to an email address. Tsuna accepts it on reflex.

“Anyway, that’s all." Irie stands, shoulders his backpack. “Thanks again. You don’t have to tell me anything, and I won’t tell anyone what I saw. But hold onto that, and remember it if you need me.”

Giotto has faded into a faint sort of silhouette for this conversation, but now he’s smiling with the satisfaction of the cat that got the cream. _Family,_ he says, when Tsuna shoots him a look. But there’s a strange overtone to the word, like he’s trying to convey a different connotation. Not family in the sense of blood relations. _More important than anything in the world_ , he means. _The ones you’re meant to protect_ , he means.

Stupid crazy ghost.

“Thanks,” says Tsuna. “I’m glad you’re okay. Honestly.”

Irie grins. “Me too.” Then he looks sheepishly at the door. “I’d better get home. My mom will want to know what happened today. See you around sometime?”

 _If you had any sense_ , Tsuna thinks, _you_ _’d run away screaming. I know I wish I could._

Instead he puts on a smile, because at least one of them deserves a little reassurance and stability today. “See you, Irie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Byakuran:** Your story's a little hard to believe, isn't it? I didn't have the Mare ring when I first crossed into a parallel world.  
>  **Yuni:** That's because the ring chose you as its rightful bearer, just as Vongola Primo has chosen his.
> 
> (So that's one behemoth of a chapter finished. Someday I may even smush parts one and two together, who knows.)

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: impolite language, series-appropriate violence, bullying, medical facilities, needles, mention of death, mention of attempted suicide.
> 
> Betaed by Angelic_Xia. Chapters will be posted when complete throughout November, and ~~possibly~~ definitely after depending how long this gets.
> 
> Edit 11/25: Heck, guys, I just found a massive roach colony in our pantry. The chapter’s gonna be a few days late while I freak the hell out and mace everything in sight.


End file.
